


I Wear My Body

by VeteranKlaus



Series: I shut my eyes and the world drops dead [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Human Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 20:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeteranKlaus/pseuds/VeteranKlaus
Summary: They agreed to meet in the park as soon as they got out of the 'trials'. Aziraphale waited, and he waited, and he waited. The moon rose into the sky and Aziraphale's form changed; from Crowley's disguise and back to himself.There's no warning, no build up, nothing when he finally comes.No serpentine eyes, no wings, no demonic energy.





	I Wear My Body

Aziraphale, still disguised as his demon counterpart, sat on a bench in St. James' Park. He had been sitting in the same spot, in more or less the same position, for perhaps two hours now. People had come and gone, the ducks had long since stopped giving hopeful quacks his way, and the sun continued to roll across the sky. And still Crowley did not show.

No white-suited man with a swaggering walk that did not fit his appearance showed up. There was no familiar presence that encroached the area as it would whenever the demon was near. No children fell over and skinned their knees, no ice creams clumsily fell off their cone and onto the ground, no telephone lines gave out. The world simply continued to turn. The sky burned orange as the sun set, then delved into a deep, inky blankness. Stars burned far in space, and the park became empty. Save for Aziraphale.

His worry was eating him from the inside out. Crowley would not have been this long. Heaven wouldn't dally for so long; they had a tight schedule to keep. They would have burned 'Aziraphale' with hellfire, Crowley would have pulled his stunt, and then he would have been back in the park within an hour. An hour and a half at the very most, should Gabriel dramatically monologue. 

The excitement to tell Crowley all about how he had made archangel Michael miracle him a towel for his bath faded, quickly replaced with a nausea that had him swallowing. He waited.

And he waited.

And he waited.

And Crowley did not come. 

He would have waited in that spot all night had his body not changed of its own accord. Rather than using one of Crowley's demonic miracles, his body shortened out, clothes changed, hair lightened. He was himself again. 

Crowley was unable to keep up their façade. The spell had reversed itself. 

Crowley was dead. 

He waited.

And he waited.

And Crowley stayed dead. Blinking back a stinging in his eyes, Aziraphale covered his mouth with one hand that trembled, for he suddenly feared that he might very well be sick. He swallowed reflexively, heavy and thick, and then he rose to his feet and left the park. 

Crowley had not gone to his flat. Because he was dead. Aziraphale had hoped that perhaps the demon had just gone right home for a nap.

The door remained locked. His plants trembled, fearing Crowley's return, only to relax upon the realisation that it was not the fearsome demon. Aziraphale watered them, caressed their leaves and told them he would be proud. They were beautiful plants, truly, despite everything Crowley had ever said about them.

Aziraphale left his apartment and locked the door. He would have to get it changed to his own property, then. It couldn't be sold, and he would need to dust it and water the plants and keep it up. His Bentley, too, although he was fearful of driving that to the parking spot he had suddenly bought. It felt wrong to get behind that wheel. It was Crowley's prized possession and it belonged to no one but Crowley himself; no one was supposed to go behind that wheel, not even Aziraphale. 

Back in his own bookshop, the angel locked the door, found himself in the backroom, and stared at the wall. Had he read the prophecy wrong? But it had worked for himself. It had gone without a hitch for himself. What curve had they thrown his demon's way that could have kept his identity secret and yet also killed him. And oh, the demon really was dead, wasn't he? 

Death was a tricky subject for immortal beings. Aziraphale had seen humans be born and die, had lived an unimaginably long lifetime compared to that of a human. Until Armageddon - and not even then, until the trials _after_ Armageddon - only had he begun to fear death. It had never seemed like a possibility for an angel. Discorporation? More so. He had only been discorporated a grand total of twice in his existence, and he was aware that that number was higher for Crowley, for the demon seemed to never really care much for it. Perhaps Hell didn't have as much paperwork, or perhaps Hell just put him into more situations that required it; he didn't know. But discorporation was a different thing than death.

He could hardly fathom it. Crowley being dead. After thousands of years in which the demon had been the only consistent face on Earth throughout his existence, he couldn't imagine a life without him, now. He may be used to years or decades in which Crowley did not show himself, but those years had been few and far between as of late. Considering the past eleven years had been spent almost always right next to the demon, he had gotten used to his immediate company. 

He better start, then. No amount of praying would bring the demon back. 

With a rough swipe at his surprisingly wet eyes, Aziraphale sucked in a shuddering breath (that he shouldn't even need, for he was an angel and didn't need to breathe, but now he suddenly felt starved of oxygen) and straightened himself up. Right. He could do nothing for Crowley, but he wouldn't let his death be in vain. Nonetheless the demon had saved the world, for it certainly would not still be around if not for him, and Aziraphale would make sure it stayed like that. For Crowley.

It had been about two weeks since the demon's death. It had been a hard two weeks, but neither Heaven nor Hell had come knocking on Aziraphale's bookshop door. Crowley's plants were still growing strong in his apartment, seemingly oblivious to the demon's permanent departure. Adam had not destroyed the world again, Shadwell, Anathema, Newton, Madame Tracy; they were living their lives perfectly fine. Aziraphale had thrown himself into his work; had tried to research any rare books he might be able to find. He had tried to reread the prophecy over and over again; tried to see if he should interpret it another way, but he simply couldn't. There was no other way to interpret the prophecy. 

He wondered what other ones in the book there might have been, and what they might say about a particular demon.

It had been about two weeks since the demon's death. Aziraphale went to the park in which he was supposed to meet the demon and celebrate their victory. He stood with a bag of seeds, spreading them out for the ducks that Crowley dubbed spies. Maybe they were. 

He had been standing by the ducks for an intermediate amount of time - time did not really matter for an immortal being, but he would have argued that he wished it would have slowed for he had been enjoying this century, truthfully. Someone said his name. The voice carried forth on the wind, no more than a hoarse whisper like a human's voice throughout a particularly rough cold, or perhaps after a long time of screaming one's voice hoarse. A whisper or a hiss, a yell or a croak, Aziraphale would recognise that voice. 

He turned fast enough to give himself whiplash, and beneath his ribcage his heart pounded an erratic, unsteady rhythm. Walking with odd strides, a weird swing of his hips, acting as if his knees could only hold his weight as long as they were positioned a very specific way, as if he felt he wasn't supposed to have legs and that it would be easier to slither around, Crowley approached him. He looked...

Well, he looked rather awful, in all honesty. His suit was askew and dirty, his hair an un-styled mess. His skin was pale and his cheekbones stood out more than they previously had. Crowley's form had always been slender, and Aziraphale assumed that was part of his snake form showing through in another way, other than his eyes and his hiss; but this was excessive. He also looked extremely tired.

Aziraphale had also not noticed him approaching.

It was easy to sense when Crowley was nearby. It was the static in the air, the energy that would make any angel tense and raise their hackles. A little prickle underneath his skin, a sudden grumpiness to any human around, some misfortune and a simple aura that approached; cold and demonic. Aziraphale could sense it up to a mile away. 

Now, Aziraphale was an observative person. One didn't get a book collection like his without being an observative person; picking up on little traces, picking up on every intention, every interpretation; everything within the books and leading to the books. Aziraphale could pick apart a book thoroughly, with an expert skill that none could match. Because he was observative. He saw what others did not. 

Then again, Crowley's situation was rather obvious. His back bore no large, sleek wings anymore; not on a physical or metaphysical or any other plane. They did not arc above his head or tuck away against his back. He did not radiate demonic energy. His eyes were round and his iris brown. No serpentine amber, no slit pupils. 

He approached Aziraphale quickly, staggering and desperate, and when he was but a few feet away did he stagger, deterred. His chest rose and fell with each heavy, ragged breath, and his eyes were wide as he stared at Aziraphale. 

He closed the distance. 

When Aziraphale's hands closed around his upper arms, Crowley crumpled forwards as if his knees had refused to hold him up any longer. His hands fisted in Aziraphale's waist coat, head falling against his chest, and if Aziraphale was a human then he might have stumbled beneath his weight. As it was, he didn't. He did hold him up slightly, looking down at him with wide eyes.

"Crowley, my - my dear boy, whatever _happened_ to you?" He spluttered. "It's been weeks! I-" His sentence failed, and Aziraphale simply swallowed. Crowley offered no response; he struggled to catch his breath and to hold himself against Aziraphale. When the angel guided them out from the middle of the path and to a nearby bench, he didn't argue. He slumped eagerly into the bench as if he had been waiting to sit down all this time. 

Eventually, he pried himself away from Aziraphale with stiff, reluctant movements. He looked Aziraphale up and down, as if reassuring to himself that he was fine, then he swallowed dryly. 

"You - you're fine?" He croaked. Aziraphale nodded. 

"Perfectly fine, other than my worry. The, er, trial went smoothly for me. When you didn't return and - and I changed back, I... I thought they had killed you." 

Crowley's face twisted slightly, and Aziraphale still could not get over those eyes. He did not need him to confirm what had happened; it was obvious. Crowley was human. 

"No," said Crowley, shaking his head. "It... not quite smoothly for me, angel," he quipped in a pathetic attempt to lighten the situation. His body still trembled from exertion, and his face was creased as if he was in pain. Aziraphale frowned, felt his heart twist, and he looked down.

"I'm so sorry, Crowley. I - I hadn't even imagined that they might do something like that," admitted Aziraphale shamefully. Crowley's head swung side to side.

"'S not your fault. They thought they were doing it to you, to be fair," replied the ~~demon~~ human. "It... took me a while to get back. I..." His hand scratched absently at his throat. "I don't know how they do it. Humans." The last word came out as a tentative whisper, as if he feared that saying it would admit to his situation. His tongue dashed out across his dry lips. "Was hard to get here."

"Are you okay?" Asked Aziraphale. Crowley hesitated at the simple question, as if such a thing would send his emotions out of control, break the façade he was wearing carefully. Aziraphale stood and coaxed Crowley onto his feet, and when the ~~demon~~ human staggered with a hiss, he slipped a hand around his waist and supported him all the way back to the bookshop. The door locked behind them, and fresh, soft pillows appeared on the couch that he settled Crowley onto. 

Aziraphale wondered if he had spent these two weeks trying to get back from wherever Gabriel had left him. 

While both of them knew that humans had basic needs, neither of them really dealt with them. Aziraphale liked to eat, but he didn't have to. Crowley liked to sleep, but he didn't have to. It took a lot of physical labour for them to get tired, and they could always simply miracle to themselves whatever they needed. It would take a lot of getting used to. And Crowley would be so, so fragile. A fall could take him out permanently. Forgetting to drink anything other than wine would kill him; drinking too much wine would kill him, and he wouldn't sober up as easily as he could have. If it was too hot or too cold (but Crowley had always been weaker to that, unable to regulate his own temperature as a snake) then he could die. He would be vulnerable to injury and disease unlike before. He would grow old and he would die. 

Aziraphale sat down in an opposite armchair and looked at Crowley. He was slumped in the chair, his eyes closed and face pale. His hands shook. 

Crowley wasn't dead. He was simply, weakly human. 

It didn't fill Aziraphale with confidence. Nonetheless, he found himself saying;

"It'll be alright, my dear boy. I promise."

**Author's Note:**

> Considering expanding this with them dealing with him being human and having to do all those good human things, not too sure yet. If you liked this, feel free to leave a kudos and offer your opinion; I'd love to hear it!


End file.
